


The enigma that is Viktor Nikiforov

by slavicmakka



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime), yuri on ice
Genre: Character Study, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Lots of Angst, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Victor Nikiforov is a Katsuki Yuuri Fan, Yoi - Freeform, Yuri on Ice - Freeform, i kin viktor so I had to write something from his pov, in depth look on yoi??, lmfaooo, this is gonna get sappy and angsty and just, we’re taking our sweet time with the smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28315944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slavicmakka/pseuds/slavicmakka
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov, the trials and tribulations that come with finding a purpose that isn’t the ice.His purpose being Yuuri Katsuki.[VAGUELY CANON PLOTLINE BUT IT DIVERGES SLIGHTLY.]AU where the world they live in is more realistic.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Kudos: 19





	1. To Fall Will Be Your Greatest Feat.

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this chapter is going to be mostly flashbacks and summaries before we dive into the juice that is Way Too Much Detail, I wanted to give me two cents on his past. I love this Man.

Nipping winds chipped at the St Petersburg skyline, alight in the glow of dawn. Rays of a golden hue scatter the city in little light, reflecting iridescence off the recently fallen snow. The people strayed from the chill. Meaning many weren’t of witness to the teen and his furry companion, bundled up and hidden from the cold on their morning stroll in layers. Cashmere lined coat and fleece scarf hang heavy on him, the pads of his hands gone cold everywhere but where the leash lay wound tight around palm. Russian blood in itself was no warmth.

“Makkaaaa.....” The boy drawled, deft with the way he gathered her attentions. Corners of his lips pull into a smile, all misshapen and yet: incandescent. Makkachin speeds her trot, only Viktor’s voice could cut through the static noise within her pup brain.

“Vitya, why did you bring the dog.” Yakov asked, his voice rough and gravelly. He stood a heavy head taller than the two, glancing down at the teen and his goldendoodle. Viktor sighed, Makka boofed. At seventeen he was permanently under his coaches guidance, Nicolette Andreivich Nikiforov deemed unfit as a widow to parent her rising medalist— his father, unable to comment.  
“I want her to come with.”   
His coach tsked, setting a hand between his youths shoulder blades.   
“This is an international competition, no dog. I have Lilia watch her.” Accent thickens with the enunciation of his wife’s name, but Viktor was too narrow minded to notice: lip quivering slightly at the thought of being apart from his precious girl. 

“Yakov! She has separation anxiety, I need—“

“No arguments, you will be reunited after you win gold.” Yakov cut him off quietly. “I promise.” He leaned in, cautious in his unwind of the leash around trembling hand. He was aware it wasn’t Makka with the separation troubles, but that was a problem for another day. 

“Bags in the car, she will be properly taken care of.”

Viktor was in no place to argue, gaze flickering between the two, blues bright with unshed tears. He simply nodded in reply, ducking down to smooth over his girls unruly curls, planting a kiss upon fuzzy forehead.   
“I’ll bring gold home for you.” 

Yakov resisted a smile, corners twitching against his will. Stepping off to deliver the overzealous pet to his wife’s hand, he finally allowed it to pull. If Makkachin was his students inspiration for gold? .. then he would never complain of her presence. 

By the age of sixteen, Viktor was already at the top of the figure skating world. At seventeen, he was an Olympic medalist, by eighteen.. 

“What were you thinking about during your final skate today?”

Viktor’s lids are heavy, sagging with sleep that he tries to blink away every few minutes, blues partially concealed with a squint. Too fixated on the little chocolate he holds between thumb and forefinger: his posture lulls. 

“Vitya, act alive.”   
Yakov’s grouse breaks through his state of dissociation and it’s like a switch has flipped, as if he still had his morning espresso thrumming through his veins. Ponytail sways with the jerk of his head, planting on what he hopes isn’t too wonky of a smile.   
“Da, prosti.. What was the question?”

By eighteen, who knows?

Victor left the press soon as it was feasible for him; he did not regret his curt departure. Tire seeping into his bones, ligaments sore from overstretch, ankles scarred from his boots tight fit— he deserved the early dismissal.   
And quite possibly a new pair of boots.

The banquet is where sponsors would be, which equates to more money, which leads to said boots. But all he could dream of was the stiff mattress awaiting him back at the hotel. 

His rib pulsed, a hairline fracture from a car accident remained a trouble— yet, what nobody knew wouldn’t hurt them. Nor his placements. 

It was regal, gold after gold. 

He didn’t feel all too dignified when peeling his skates from pulsing feet to reveal sore heels, or when scrubbing at the pads with a pumice stone. 

“The banquet is shortly, get dressed.”  
Viktor paused his ministrations, peering up at his coach through mascara lined lash, clumpy and rushed. Not like this he wasn’t!  
“I want to go home to Makka—“ His coach was having none of it, spewing Russian that may translate to a form of encouragement in another language, (or lifetime.)   
He never verbally consented to said act, just somehow turning up to the hall, pressed suit stifling in comparison to his track ones. All he knew was to mirror polite smiles and shake the hands of the people who saw him as an investment opportunity.

It was worth every wasted hour, by eighteen he had full access to his funds. 

And he got those new boots.   
Genuine gold plated blades, terrible upkeep, but the visual appeal had him turning a blind eye. The extra cost of the embossed Russian flag well worth it. 

All the while his medals sat aging, in some box at his residence, the guest room of Yakov’s home. 

It’s the little things.

“Makka baby, look! They’re gorgeous.” Silver hair rippled around progressively thinning face, haloing him in. Angelic youth still clung. “I got you a gift too, cmere.” 

At eighteen he was still under his coaches guidance. Though to him it finally began to no longer matter, the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Yakov was his remaining family.   
His first call as an adult was to indulge in his savings. His second? To completely sever all ties to the Nikiforov name. It was the first thing he’s done that was no surprise. 

But, he could never be without one.

“Molodoy chelovek.” Lilia chastised, extending the hands of an aristocrat, slender fingers, painted fingernails as sharp as a cat's, finely polished— “Give me the shears.”   
Her robe was yanked tight over her, adding to the illusion of a mother reprimanding her son.

Viktor stood at a hunch over the sink, jaw dropped in a mockery of a classic comedic sketch, joint aching from it’s clutch at the handle of her sewing scissors. 

“Viktor Ivanovich Nikiforov—“

He was steadfast in his dissever, swiftly shedding the ponytail from the nape of his neck, grinning mischievously at her panicked screech. His ears still ring from the residual tinnitus developed after Yakov came running to her rescue, expecting peril and instead finding his menace of a skater causing affront in the hours where only the world was what the lampposts shed light upon. 

Even so, they had an appointment immediately scheduled for that coming morning to clean up the mess he himself had created. Yakov was too good to him sometimes. 

“What made you think that was a good idea, Vitya?” He pondered aloud, pressing his nose deeper into the offered magazines, his students face plastered on the cover.   
Viktor simply smiled at his reflection, sparing his balding coach a fleeting glance.   
“My hair has defined my image for years, it was time for a change.” 

He debuted it the following season.   
  
The papers said he was shedding his youthful image. Tabloids called him sexy now. 

He didn’t know how he felt about it.

At nineteen he had learned how to manage his money properly. Gathering a stable funding between seasons that wasn’t dedicated to his career, he decided to leave his temporary nest. Nosing into a cozy apartment nearby Yubileynyy Arena. 

St Petersburg was always cheaper than Moscow. 

The first nights silence was a juxtaposition to the fits of his coach and his wife, and he almost struggled to rest at night without the shrill verbal degradation to lull him. 

Almost. 

Makkachin curled up at his hip was enough familiarity. He felt like an adult. 

At twenty he realized his mistake in believing he was an adult by any means besides title.  
He was rising drastically. His ego fed, the headlines called him Золото России. The Gold of Russia.  
He grows too big of a head.

“Viktor! What happened on the ice tonight?”  
Blues are blinded, he can’t see nor hear. Overstimulation drawing him in towards the frontlines of his suppressed anger, Yakov was his only sense in it all. “I’m—“ He looked to his coach, but the answers weren’t written upon his face. “I’m human, it was mistake.”

He never relearned his center of gravity after his final growth spurt. What was once a hairline fracture turned into a fully formed break. It’s a horrifying moment caught on camera, it circulates national television. He cannot compete with a broken rib, he deflates. And as always, his coach his there to save the day. Directing him under Lilia’s wing again, ordering him to kill his past self, start anew.

At twenty one his name is no longer just his birth given, it has become an entire brand.  
He reaches his second Olympic opportunity, and takes gold home to Russia: the tabloids eat it up. In his return he is gifted his first and only car. A pink Cadillac from Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. He resists a wince as he shakes the presidents hand, he was too deep in the closet to know why. 

At twenty two the loneliness starts to set, he has spent every waking moment dedicated to his skating career. He watches in envy as his old friends get married. He doesn’t have time for that, he gives Russia more gold.  
The papers call him a playboy now.  
He doesn’t get to decide his image.. does he?

At twenty three he’s every bit of the facade the Internet has decided for him. He’s never seen with a woman on his arm. A tweet goes viral. A photograph of what the internet assumes is him snogging a man in a restaurant, it’s denied time and time again by Yakov Feltsman. Viktor chooses to stick with no comment. He wins gold anyways, but he feels the RSF breathing heavy down his nape. He won’t slip up again.

At twenty four he tears a ligament. He returns to the ice within six weeks but it’s deemed impossible to be ready for nationals on two weeks of prep, at least according to the federation.   
He does it anyways, he wins gold.  
They forget about his past mistake.   
He breathes easy.

At twenty five he is every bit of untouchable as he feels. Everybody knows of him, yet nobody knows him. Friends and competitors mesh, everyone he knows is connected to the ice he’s built his life upon. Other athletes retire, satisfied with their accomplishments, settling in with their families: their wives..  
husbands.

Is his hairline receding? He’ll bring home more gold about it.

At twenty six the boards were filled with foreign names, where had the time gone? Once familiar faces disappeared, younger crowds entering the division. He had no competition, where else was there to go from up? He knew he couldn’t surprise the world anymore, he was expected to win gold. 

But, this was just his year to be surprised. 

The banquet is his wake up call. The clock began its rounds. Spectacles askew, flush high upon round cheekbones, alabaster skin tinted pink down to the waistline of spandex. Every caress paints him in colors he’d never experienced, so fervent. Just scattered hands, dancing, wanting to be everywhere at once. A complete blight on his life. Viktor smiles handsomely, perfect and poised. Yuuri grins foolishly, toothy and painfully effervescent. 

The most fun he’s had in ten years.  
Salvation is what Viktor calls it.  
He stares at the pictures for far longer than he cares to admit.

He doesn’t hear from Yuuri Katsuki, all that lingers is the phantom memories of hands that he salvages for desperate nights. 

Viktor Nikiforov has experienced something he never has before.  
A desperate want for something new.

Twenty seven.

He leaves his fifth consecutive Grand Prix and the European World Championship with the same medals as always, nobody is surprised again.  
For the third time in his life. 

The tabloids leave the questions of his sex appeal in smaller fonts, retirement has been bolded.  
He isn’t sure what scares him more.

And age twenty seven is when his life truly begins.


	2. Oh, my bad Yakov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: we finally get the god that is yuuri katsuki to make our presence, amen

Nails clack upon wooden flooring, shag of a tail whipping back and forth erratically as they trail behind— nosing into the backs of knees in a plea for attention. Yet the man wasn’t slighted, peering at the device perched between slim fingers.  
“Da, Makka. Patient, good comes to those who wait.”  
He fell with the grace that only a dancer could rival, lounging across navy blue polyester, gesturing to his open lap as if it were free real estate. She was gracious in her taking, curling up in between parted thighs, huffing with her fathers dramatics.   
Patience, where did the remainder of his reside?  
He rubbed at his head, questioning if he was beginning to lose his mind. These days, he frequently got lost in himself. He’d forget what he was doing just stepping from one room to another. He’d always pin it on his reeling from the years he has gone without. Although, it seemed like he had it all...

The phone buzzes incessantly, alerting him to what his primary motive was in curling up on his sofa, and he taps at the first notification. 

@PhichitChulanont retweeted:   
@FSFANS [Katsuki Yuuri] Tried to Skate Viktor’s FS Program [Stay Close To Me] (LINK)

The soft pull of yearning is what crashes down on him first, a pressure just behind his ribs curling down into the pit of his stomach, but then— it aches, crushing him in a way he cannot shake, the weight of it on his lungs, warm on his heart. 

Longing. 

The routine he crafted after an awakening. Strategically pulling out a passion that he never knew he still could contain.   
He kicked up, elbow perched to the sofas arm, resting his head against the pads of worn prints— and tapped at the link. 

The second emotion he feels, is pure unadulterated anger. 

The video loads in and jerks to a start without warning, and it.. this isn’t the Katsuki Yuuri that Viktor had seen the last seasons. Focus is evident in the way his lids meet at their horizon, the furrow that seemed a permanent part of his brow releasing. He looks to be taken by bliss, a strangely familiar emotion to see on such a divine face. 

And he’s dancing, truly dancing across the ice, with every jump: the frustration festers. 

There’s no music but Viktor can hear it, he can. 

Oh, he most definitely must be going mad. 

Sure, his jumps aren’t the best they can be, and he flipped parts of his choreography around for his own limitations— but he was making music with his entire being, he was telling the story without expression. 

Viktor isn’t even aware of the anger bubbling in his core until the screen cuts black, reflecting his emotion back to him. Lips had only pulled into a pensive frown but his veins ran magma. He briefly wondered if smoke may be rising from his ears.   
Every thought was conflicting, too much to mourn, consider—

‘Why wasn’t he with me on that podium?’

Viktor rises from the couch, disentangling himself from his sleeping beauty to pace, phone dangling dangerously in trained dancer hands. 

‘He should have been at the world championships, he should have been on that podium, he should have taken that gold from me— he has the capabilities, why did he fail?’

He skims across his gallery, tapping from folder to folder til his screen is cluttered in pictures of the muse himself. 

His stomach fully bottoms out, phone smacking to weathered wood.

‘He asked me to be his coach.’

Their palms like morning dew, grabbing at his wears in an attempt to keep balance. His heart felt like it had suddenly accelerated much too fast, following words ringing like a bullet in an enclosed room. “Be my coach Viktoooor!~” Sooty lashes flutter behind blue rim frames in mock innocence, and Viktor was gone— champagne breath a cloud of romanticization, suffocating him in all things Yuuri: but he can’t step away, already tainted by narrow brown eyes and a straight nose. 

He tore himself from the lounge, Makkachin perking up with the sudden materialization of their fathers footfall. Bedroom door already ajar, he yanks the hangers from his closet with the ferocity he kept contained, hurling them across unworn sheets. 

‘He’s calling for me.’

There’s more to this impulse than that night, he knows there is. But, for now he would blame it on the way he was painted in the light, honey-brown eyes aglow in the overhead fluorescents, dark broken strands framing the soft angles of his jaw.

To spend a lifetime searching for himself, and finding what he needed in the confines of the smallest hands.   
That’s precisely how he ended up settled into first class, one way ticket punched out, his most favored belongings packaged and set off on an overnight. “You should come visit Japan, Yakov!” 

There is nothing that could make him regret this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “there is nothing that could make me regret this-“ headass, just wait


End file.
